


you may be cold and wet when you're done (but you've got to admit it's good, clean fun)

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Disney Abuse, Drowning, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manhandling, Public Nudity, Stripping, The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Well not really, Whump, he's just being melodramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 18:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: The Master deages the Doctor, and decides he needs a bath. No, that's it. (It doesn't go very well.)





	you may be cold and wet when you're done (but you've got to admit it's good, clean fun)

**Author's Note:**

> I swear. I swear to God, I literally just wanted him to be bathed. I wanted to make him wet and generally uncomfortable and affronted about it. That was _all_ that was in the plan. Instead I ended up with this bleak, miserable mess. It was made vaguely readable thanks to significant intellectual contribution from the v. excellent [Riathel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riathel). 
> 
> It seems that I am cursed to spend my entire life writing infinite permutations on the idea of these two doing things that are not sex, strictly speaking, but qualify easily as kinky pornography. Fine. 
> 
> I've sadly butchered [this Disney classic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YC69dF7ViTA) because I've got no shame and you're obviously only reading this to squirm anyway. _Now scrub good and hard! It can't be denied, that he'll look mighty cute as soon as he's dried.🎵_

The Doctor’s limbs are so weak, so enervated, that he can hardly get to his knees, much less stand. Static discharges through his nerves, and his body is alight with the pain of it, the groundfires still burning in every muscle.

But they haul him up anyway, and with lurching clarity – because he can _see – _he realises his skin is smooth and his senses are sharp and his thoughts are singing. He hardly has a second to contemplate it. His legs won’t move, he’s stumbling, and they drag him off the bridge and away.

In those few moments, he doesn’t wonder where they’re taking him. What the blueprint of this ship is, where the strategic routes may lie. He wonders _why_. The Master has changed his mind, and the possibilities of that are spiralling out of control with the renewed agility of every synapse. Conditional probabilities spew themselves across his mind, the chance of _A-_given-_B-_through-_Z, _as the screech of turbofans fades dull and resonant deep in the Valiant’s hull.

He tries to escape when they arrive at the door. Of course he does. He doesn’t even make it one step before he buckles, slumps against a soldier, is seized by the upper arm and thrown forwards again. He hardly knows his left from right.

The Doctor realises he is shivering, the heat of his adrenaline now clammy sweat, and that he is alone now. Just his armed escort and an empty tiled room, the floor bare but for the open drain in the centre, the walls monument to three sets of low-flow water valves.

This probably isn’t good.

He opens his mouth, even manages to get half a word out before they throw him onto the floor. ‘Wait,’ he says, his voice breaking on its own tightened pitch, ‘I can help you.’

The soldier closest to him – young – flicks a glance at his superior. The Doctor dares to hope for a second, because he raises an eyebrow in response, just that one bright flicker of human emotion. Then he hands the kid a pair of trauma shears.

The Doctor shoots a desperate look at the door. Two of them guarding it, three more with guns trained on his chest. His head is spinning, the staggered borders of the tiles are too sharp for his eyes, the floor too gritty for his hands. His nerves are shorting out.

'Please, don't do this,' he begs, as the younger one reaches into a pocket. 'Let me help.'

The commander looks at him, shrewd. Maybe he even takes some pity. 'His orders were very clear.'

He needs to think, he needs to take the chance _now_, while he's still got one. And two of the rifles are off him now, slung low while their owners snap on latex gloves—and thought deserts him when he realises that they're going to touch him. Then, with the precision of the machine these humans have become, they're on top of him like lead.

The Doctor struggles as best he can. The three men have him easily pinned; know how a body moves, how to weaponise its own limitations. They have his leg twisted and braced against a heavily-muscled body, his centre of gravity tipped back between his neck and shoulders, his arms bent over his head. So when they reach for the first two buttons of his suit, he’s helpless, and with a sick lurch he knows there's nothing he can do to stop them. Two of them tug it off his shoulders in sharp jerks, and the Doctor wishes they would have asked him nicely, not ripped the seams with a gun to his head.

They want his tie, too, and there's a brief struggle with the knot before it slips off his head like a noose, as if even the gallows aren't good enough for him. One of them starts trying to pick out the buttons from his shirt. But he's moving too much, and the kid – the one undressing him – rucks his shirt up, slips the cold blade of the scissors underneath, and shears through the thin cotton like butter.

He really panics, then. Because they don't stop there. He's got one leg free, and he kicks ineffectually at the soldier grappling with his fly, who is – of course – heavily armoured. The kid laughs, takes hold of the waistband on either side, and pulls his trousers down to his thighs.

Limbs trapped in the remains of his clothing, they easily roll him over, and the Doctor begins to realise that this is it. That he might not be able to stop this. His mind is – his mind is manic, flying, he wonders what a human would say, what a human would want to hear, and he can't because the only thing he can think of is whether the Master is watching this.

His orders were very clear.

He's on his front, an arm wrenched up between his shoulder blades, pressed down so tightly he can't take a full breath. They're cutting off his shoes – his _shoes. _The one holding his leg convulses with a burst of laughter when he sees the Doctor's question-mark socks. He bats the scissors away. 'You serious, mate? We gotta keep those, just look at ‘em.'

Absurdly, the Doctor feels a surge of gratitude towards the man for that. Of all things.

He can't give up. Two months, and this is still the best chance he's had, even at the price it asks of him. As they struggle with the rest of his clothes, he makes eye contact with the youngest one. Can't be more than nineteen; the Doctor thinks he's got to have someone looking for him. 'Who's he got? Your mum, your dad?' the Doctor asks him, oddly quiet after the noise of their tussle.

The boy looks at him, and says nothing.

'I could help,' he says. 'I could save them. You know I’m important to him.'

The air is damp; he can feel it now. Feels it shivering its icy threat down his spine and across his bare shoulders, the place behind his knees, the inevitable bleed of his warmth into the brutality of concrete and mould. He's pushing himself upright with one arm, shocked by the bite of stone into the flesh of his hip, willing this human not to turn away.

Except there is no reply, and it ends up being the Doctor who breaks his gaze. 'Please don't do this to me,' he whispers, and the shame of it takes his breath away.

The kid steps back abruptly, hefts his rifle and looks down the sight at him. He only recognises it then. It’s not just the Master. They're afraid of him, too.

A finger hooks into the elastic of his pants, and he opens his mouth reflexively, then realises he doesn’t want them to hear what’s going through his head. He feels, hears the snip of fabric above his thigh. It’s almost underwhelming after that. Part of his identity felt like it was being stripped away with his clothes – then he’s nude, and they just feel like cotton. One of them makes a grunt of disgust as he tosses the stained scraps aside, and the Doctor feels a vicious satisfaction at managing even a caricature of offense.

Their eyes on him are like lead weights. His skin crawls from the cold. He’s on his hands and knees, afraid and resolute, and the youth he’d been so grateful for now feels like a sentence as damning as decrepitude had been.

They release him, then. He almost sobs with relief. He turns, expecting to see the Master there – resplendent, compelling them to stand down with nothing more than the weight of his presence. The Doctor is uncomfortably crestfallen when he isn’t. Just a set of rifles following his movement, and the faceless men who wield them.

It does occur to him that the situation hasn’t improved much, because now he might have an opening – but he’s got no clue what they’re about to do. They’ve tightened their hold on the only point of ingress, and one is peeling off around the wall, fiddling with a tap. The thought seizes him – they’re going to drown him in here. They’re going to hold his head underwater and keep it there, until he can’t hold off the imperative any longer, until his body’s final attempts to keep him alive just kill him faster – and he misses his warning before the blast of water almost bowls him over.

He yelps, but the noise is lost in the roar of water, the sensation of slivers of ice being driven through his skin and pummelling his bones. The shock of the cold passes quickly, probably because the water is in his throat and nose and trying not to choke rapidly tops his body’s priorities. Eventually it does stop, and he finds himself sopping wet, splayed on an elbow and coughing his lungs up. This time around he notices it – the thin grey line of a hose, the finger on a stop valve. He even spots the movement of the thumb and remembers to hold his breath.

It hurts worse, now his skin is cold and reddened from the impact. He raises a hand to protect himself and the industrial pressure almost rams it into his forehead. The water strafes up and down his body, a barrage of arrows, and he gasps despite himself and gets a mouthful of copper-stained water. It seems to go on for a long time.

His body feels numb when it stops, reverberating with the echoes of it. He feels like he’s been put through a paint shaker. Water sluices off his hair, plastering it over his eyes, splashing audibly off his body. He’s already breathing hard – he breathes harder when the air hits his skin and the cold becomes utterly frigid. The water swirls towards the drain, grimy and discoloured.

Someone has a bucket, and the hose thunders as they fill it up. The dread nearly paralyses him when he realises that they’re about to touch him again. One soldier steadies his weapon with such a white-knuckled grip that the Doctor even feels a stab of pity, despite himself. He is shivering, cringing into the slump of his own shoulders.

The shock of being touched gets lost in the fact that their hands are so blissfully _warm_, and his relieved exhale sounds more like a sob. Soap makes the rubber of their gloves slippery, and the easy slide of it over his raw skin is dismally comforting. He doesn’t fight the second, the third, the fourth pair of hands. They scrub his back, his shoulders, his trembling arms. One picks up his right hand and tenderly washes the crud from under his nails, another rubs a soapy hand up the back of his neck and into his hair.

Something about that is too much, far too much, and the Doctor shakes his head free, whips his hand out of the other man’s grasp. The guns click in the background, and in bare seconds his arm is kicked out from under him, a knee in his back – and he’s on his side, held fast, his cheek scraped raw against the floor. He’s so cold, even the concrete feels warm. The scrape of a bucket is his only notice before a wave of suds is sloshed over his face. Between the sting of soap and the body blocking his vision, he can’t see, only feel the rhythmic tug of a hand working soap through the length of his hair. He lets the spit, the water seep out of his mouth and take the bitter detergent with it. Someone shoves a hand under his armpits and begins to rub, and the Doctor can do nothing but turn his face into the ground.

The man lathering his chest is not gentle, each motion of his hands pushing him backwards as he works his way across his breastbone. Another one is running a soapy palm over his stomach, rinsing the graze on his hip, fingertips kneading into his pubic hair – and that’s when he fights, really fights. Wrenches his whole body against the grip on his arms, kicks his ankle free, tries to buck off the two leveraging their weight against his chest and shoulders. He can’t seem to get purchase, can’t make his limbs move as fast or as strong as he _knows_ they should be. Someone manages to get his legs under them and straddles him, another clamps his head against the ground with both hands – and like that, it’s over.

There’s just one of them free to wash him, now. With distaste, he splashes more water over the Doctor’s front and scrubs hard at the crease of his thigh, the tangled mess of hair. The man seizes a handful of his genitals and the Doctor wants to wail with misery. He is brutally thorough. Water pools around the Doctor’s nose and mouth, and every ragged breath now sprays through the foam.

They roll him on his front after that, all but sitting on him. There’s not much point. He’s done fighting this, he doesn’t even know what he’s fighting _for_.

The stiller he gets, the colder he becomes. Not even the four hot bodies shielding him from the draft do much to help. Breathing is difficult with two men kneeling on his back. He stops paying much attention to what they’re doing, stops caring. His fingers are so numb he couldn't uncurl them if he wanted.

He feels a hand wash up the inside of his thighs and between his cheeks with nothing less than despair. He isn’t even expecting it when a finger, slick with soap, breaches him and washes inside. It’s over and done before he even has a chance to react. He tells himself it isn’t much – he knows down to his stomach that it's far more than enough. The detergent stings belatedly, a souvenir to remember the shame by.

That’s it. They stop touching him. They get off him in one rapid, wary motion and retreat to the other side of the room. The Doctor doesn’t bother moving, and doesn’t want to. He’s so cold. He’s so cold that when they hose him off with one final sandblast, the water that had once felt glacial now registers as lukewarm.

The kid tosses him an overstarched towel from somewhere, which lands mostly on the flooded floor. He gestures at him with his rifle. ‘Get up.’

Crumpled against one wall, the Doctor manages to look at him, his anguish writ across his face. He touches the edge of the towel, the motions of it somehow unfamiliar.

The kid takes a skittish step forward and jabs him with the barrel. ‘C’mon, move.’

The Doctor isn’t sure what he’s looking for in those bright eyes. He doesn’t find it. He gets to his feet, clumsily wraps the towel around his middle. Half of it is sopping wet, anyway. His body is shaking, even more brittle than it was as a wizened husk.

They march him back through the Valiant like that; naked, hair dripping. He has very little mind for scheming. He doesn’t bother to think about escaping, doesn’t even want to plan for the Master’s next move. He’d like his suit back. He’d honestly even welcome the tent.

In the quiet, a thought strikes him. ‘What are your names?’ the Doctor asks.

Only one of them answers – the commander, the one digging a gun into his back. ‘Adams. Now, hurry up. He’s waiting.’

The Doctor’s lips are a firm, sullen line when he’s returned to the Valiant’s bridge. There’s no question that the Master knows he’s arrived, but he’s made to wait there and shiver while the Master corrects some paperwork.

He looks delighted when he finally sets his portfolio down and sees the Doctor there, huddling his too-small towel about himself. His grin crests across his face and he jumps to his feet, shooing away the soldiers. Obstinate, the Doctor refuses to speak to him.

His hearts still pound with a rush that isn’t entirely fear as the Master draws close. He smells him, wood and orris and the coffee on his breath – he feels him probing at the bruised edges of his mind, an obsessive scrutiny that the Doctor knows he can never fully evade.

The Master lifts a finger under his chin, and tilts his head up to inspect the fruits of his labour. No matter how minute, he doesn’t miss the Doctor flinching from his touch. His delight cools to something far less favourable.

‘Aren’t you going to thank me, Doctor?’ he says. His thumb finds the raw abrasion on the Doctor’s cheek, and his mouth parts a little, all moist and pink as he smears the drying blood across the Doctor’s jaw. ‘What a shame, you’re dirty again already.’

‘Stop it,’ the Doctor snaps, before he remembers to stop himself. 

The Master stops touching him and raises a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Really? Someone’s cranky today.’

He glares at the floor. It’s useless, really. He can dodge the Master’s eyes all he likes, but the hurt is bleeding off him in spades, and he hasn’t the presence of mind anymore to stop it.

‘Brat,’ the Master snarls. ‘I make you young, and all you do is bitch about it.’

That makes his mouth twist, crumple into something far too close to tears. He forces himself to look up, to meet the Master’s eyes, to keep his jaw firm. ‘Change me back, then, _Master._’

He looks repulsed for a brief moment, then catches the edge of the Doctor’s towel with an ugly sneer. Rips it free, watches the Doctor jerk and try to cover half his body with nothing but a pair of arms. He should be laughing. It’s disturbing that he isn’t.

‘No,’ the Master says, dragging his gaze so slowly down the Doctor’s naked body it is almost ruthless. He pauses deliberately, cruelly over the Doctor’s bare groin. ‘I don’t think I will.’

A bitter laugh rattles out the hollow of his chest. ‘You’ll do what you like anyway.’

At that, the Master spears him with a look of utter contempt. He snaps his fingers, summons a guard. ‘Give me that,’ he says, and snatches a pair of handcuffs from his vest.

The Doctor doesn’t protest as the Master grips his arm with savage force and drags him bodily to the foot of the stairs. He only grimaces, shakes his head irritably as the Master clicks a cuff around his wrist, hooks the chain around a rail too high to be comfortable. He hauls the Doctor up just long enough to lock the other cuff in place before letting him fall.

‘I think you’ve had enough of my generosity,’ the Master says, and leaves him there.

**Author's Note:**

> The Master's orders for his date night? 
> 
> 1\. For God's sake, wash him. Do it properly.  
2\. Don't let him escape.  
3\. Don't listen to a word he says.  
4\. Hurt him only as much as necessary.  
(5. Don't call me. I'm getting my mani-pedi this morning.)


End file.
